


a light to guide you

by KaavyaWriting



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fairy AU, Halloween, M/M, Mild Language, basically the one with all the fairies, fairy bilbo, human thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaavyaWriting/pseuds/KaavyaWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Thorin noticed of it was the strange flickering out of the corner of his eyes, like sunlight reflecting on water, or candlelight flickering over a mirror, a flashlight dying on the last dredges of its battery. They haunted him, the bright little iridescent lights dancing just out of sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a light to guide you

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

The first Thorin noticed of it was the strange flickering out of the corner of his eyes, like sunlight reflecting on water, or candlelight flickering over a mirror, a flashlight dying on the last dredges of its battery. They haunted him, the bright little iridescent lights dancing just out of sight.

That first time it sent a twist of something through Thorin, an almost unsettled feeling, like he should go discover whatever they were. As if he should be somewhere else, anywhere but where he was, settled at his desk in the middle of the night, the only light in the room the glow of his laptop. There were no flashlights, no candles, no sun or water or anything to cast the glitter of lit diamonds across his window.

He stood, the legs of his office chair wheeling lightly across the wooden floor, and padded over to the window.

There was nothing, as Thorin expected, but he found himself flicking the latch and pushing the window up, ducking down to lean out, as if getting closer to the world outside would suddenly bring the lights in sight, make some mysterious thing appear before his eyes.

The moon was full, shining cool white light across the world, casting his backyard into pools of shadow. The bushes beneath his window were shades of green and black, shadowed, brittle leaves rustling in the chilly October wind.

There was a giggle. Thorin's head shot up only to slam into the bottom of the window.  
He reflexively clutched the back of his head, and cursed the sudden onslaught of the headache it caused. He glared out at the woods only a few meters off the back of his house, where he was sure he'd heard someone laugh.

But no one was there, and he wouldn't expect there to be in the middle of the night. The trees at the edge of the small forest were utterly still, not a single breeze stirring them. The moon cast its benevolent light over their leaves, lighting them up in silver even as it cast the world beneath them into something darker than black, impossible to penetrate.

There wasn't anyone, and there were no glimmering lights either.

Thorin grumbled to himself, cursing the trees and annoying neighbors, nonexistent lights and his own damnable curiosity all in one breath. He shut the window with a resounding thump and went back to his work.

He didn't latch the window, and he didn't see the tiny light sparkle right outside it, just once, no bigger than a thumbnail, before vanishing away.

It didn't occur to him until he was lying in bed, that there'd been a decent wind. Why hadn't the trees rustled?

~*~

His keys went missing.

His socks, too.

And his spoons—only the silver ones, he noticed after awhile, the ones from his mother that he always tossed in carelessly with the rest of the utensils.

Everything always turned up somewhere eventually, and Thorin wrote it off as the hazard of living in a new house, with barely half his boxes unpacked.

That was, wrote it off until his shoes turned up in the freezer and his ice cube trays were left in his closet with melted ice puddling across the floor. His folders of client paperwork were tucked away into his dryer, his TV remote dropped carelessly into the filing cabinet, along with a jar of honey, his copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , and Fíli's old stuffed elephant he'd grown out of about ten years ago but which Thorin felt stupidly attached to.

It was around then he suspected he was being pranked. It would have made sense, if his nephews were anywhere near the sleepy village of Tyrn Gorthad, but they weren't. They were home with their mother, in the distant mountains.

He would have suspected the locals, but they barely spoke to him as it was. Every time he tried, they gave him odd looks, or muttered something about his little cottage house, and quickly shied away. He'd always known getting locals to warm up to an outsider was a hard thing, but three months in at his most charming, he still found only a handful of people willing to say more than three sentences to him, and any time he brought up his house, they developed urgent errands and sudden responsibilities.

And those damnable twinkling lights still popped up, almost every night. They were never in the same place, as if they were moving, following him around.

Every time Thorin tried to follow them to their source, he found himself staring at the woods outside his house, with only a foggy recollection of why he'd gone outside.

Every time, there was nothing there.

As time went on, he grew more and more certain someone just beyond the trees was watching him.

~*~

"Strange things happen up at that cottage." Bofur took a long pull of his beer, an odd look to his eyes even as he grinned in a way that made Thorin suspect he was joking.

Bofur was a miner who'd arrived home only two days ago after a year away, and the only person Thorin met in the entire village who was willing to talk to him longer than two seconds on their first meeting.

Bombur and Bifur, brother and cousin respectively, clung to him as though he'd vanish for another year if they let go. Even now, Bifur sat to the left of him at their small pub table, picking all the cashews out of a dish of nuts and hoarding them off to the side. From the way Bofur shifted and winced, Bifur kicked him under the table, though he didn't pause once in his excavation of the bowl.

There was something strange about him—Bofur, though Bifur was peculiar as well, with a deep, jagged scar over his forehead and an inability to speak Westron, though he seemed to understand it just fine. A mining accident, Bombur had explained, when he'd caught Thorin frowning at Bifur's scar in puzzlement, and quickly changed the subject as though he didn't wish to talk about it. It made sense they would be sensitive about Bifur's injury, and Thorin had let it drop with a nod of acknowledgment. But Bofur's strangeness…

Thorin couldn't put his finger on it, but occasionally Bofur's tone of voice or the way he studied Thorin made the back of his neck tingle to the point he had to clench his fists against his legs to keep from rubbing the feeling away. It felt almost predatory.

In all likelihood it had more to do with the way everyone looked at Bofur, not the other way around; they were all startled, rattled, like they'd not expected to see him again, and didn't know what to do now that they had. Like he'd come back from the dead.

Valar, he was losing it. This mad little village was driving him around the bend.

That knowledge didn't stop the locals from giving their table a wide berth, from sending worried little glances to Bofur, then to Thorin, then between Bifur and Bombur, who was up getting their drinks at the bar, before circling back to Thorin. It was like they were some aggravating audience at a sports match.

Bofur gave him a thoughtful look, that peculiar something back in his eyes, a knowledge that Thorin didn't want to analyze too closely. It was not something pleasant. "The cottage's called Bag-End. Lots of local legends surrounding it. Superstition runs strong in us village folk."

Thorin gave Bofur a sour look, recognizing the gleam in Bofur's eyes as the same one Fíli got when he was messing with Kíli, and cursed himself for letting someone wind him up so easily. Bifur seemed to concur, because he jammed his foot so hard into Bofur's shin the table wobbled. 

"I grew up in a town in the Blue Mountains so small no one's bothered giving it a name," Thorin said shortly. "So stop having me on."

Bofur grinned then, and laughed, his expression melting back into something strictly amiable. "Alright, alright. Fair enough. Long way from home then, aren't you?"

"Not with the trains," Thorin pointed out. He shifted restlessly, and he couldn't help pressing, "You're the only one in town who's been willing to talk about my house."

Bofur laughed again. "Fact is, outsiders don't last long around here. No point to getting attached, you see? Roll in one day, spend a little time, a year, less. Vanish in the night."

" _Practically_ in the night," Bombur said loudly, so close behind Thorin that he jumped in his chair, causing the rickety old wood to creak ominously.

Bombur grinned at him, a little too stretched to be genuine. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said, settling the mug of beer at Thorin's elbow. He shot Bofur a ruffled look. "Didn't mean to take so long, more crowded at the bar than usual."

Bofur shrugged a shoulder at his brother's words, not looking away from Thorin with his sharp eyes and easy grin. "Just sayin', you might as well move out now. Move back home before you vanish yourself, off to someplace you didn't intend."

Bombur froze at Thorin's elbow for just a second, before letting out a strained laugh. "You're an idiot, brother. Don't mind him, Thorin. Always was a prankster at heart, and now that Hallow's Eve's tiptoeing closer, he can't help rolling out nonsense."

"You mean Halloween?" Thorin smiled easily in return, though he wasn't feeling particularly social anymore, and he was positive Bofur wasn't joking at all. Even if he was having him on, it was a joke that didn't make sense, and all of Thorin's instincts were telling him to listen.

There was a warning in Bofur's words, but Thorin couldn't figure it out for the life of him. All he did know was that Bombur and Bifur didn't want to talk about it. Maybe it had something to do with everyone's odd looks.

It was Bombur who startled this time, sending Thorin an alarmed look. "Ah, yeah, Halloween. We call it Hallow's Eve 'round here, you'll notice. Old traditions die hard, eh?"

"Some of us even call it Samhain," Bofur said mildly, only to be kicked by Bifur once more, now with an added elbow from Bombur on his other side. Bofur cast Thorin a meaningful look anyway, and this time Thorin was sure there was something in his gaze that looked wild, almost inhuman.

Thorin inspected his mug and its amber contents suspiciously and decided to pace himself a little better. Clearly the brew on tap was stronger than he'd thought.

The rest of the evening passed slowly, small talk pulled between them like a verbal tug of war. All Thorin wanted to do was go home, make a cup of tea, finish the email to his sister and go to bed, to put this entire strange evening behind him, but they didn't wrap up until the moon was high and the air had the cold bite of an autumn night well into its zenith.

As they shuffled out the door of the local—only—bar Bofur caught Thorin's shoulder, slowing their pace just enough that Bombur and Bifur got a few paces ahead of them.

"Be careful of the lights," Bofur muttered, fingers digging into Thorin's coat hard enough to pinch skin. He stared at Thorin like he couldn't look away, and Thorin was certain he caught sparks flaring in his eyes. "They're meant to trick and befuddle." He shuddered slightly, fingers biting in harder and eyes shuddering closed. When he looked to Thorin a second later his eyes were once more clear and brown and cheerful, his easy smile back in place. Bofur stepped back, and Thorin wondered if he was going mad, seeing the reflection of those lights in his eyes.

But Bofur had seen them too.

~*~

Thorin had meant to go straight home and look up mysterious lights on the internet that night.

He meant to have tea and look up Samhain and finish his letter to his sister.

He meant to do a lot of things.

Instead he arrived home and kicked off his shoes, stripping off his clothes on the way to his bedroom and leaving them like fallen leaves across his floor. He collapsed onto his unmade bed, asleep before he hit the mattress. He didn't wake up for a full day.

When he did, he didn't remember his unfinished letter to Dís, his conversation with Bofur, Halloween or Samhain.

All he could think about were the lights.

They darted and danced across his room, and when they left, so did he.

~*~

Thorin remembered walking into the woods.

He just didn't remember _why_.

All he knew was he'd waken up to see the lights flitting across his ceiling like they didn't care whether he saw them anymore before they vanished out the window.

Thorin had followed them, so preoccupied with them he barely thought to pull on the flannel pajama pants he'd thrown across the bed the morning before, never mind shirt or shoes. He had to follow the lights. He couldn't lose them.

Now he was in the middle of the woods, barefoot and half-naked, and he stood before a small clearing, feeling like a fog had lifted from his mind and he could finally think clearly again. Or at least think a little more clearly.

He stood at the edge of a glade, long meadow grasses glowing silver in the bright light of an almost-full moon. Thirteen trees surrounded the open space, standing like grim guards. Though the air was utterly still and not a whisper of wind rustled their leaves, Thorin half expected the trees to shudder into motion, swaying, reaching for him, pulling him into… something. Something just beyond the reach of his thoughts, no matter how hard he grasped for it.

There were tiny mushrooms, he realized as he stared hard at the ground in his thought. They looked like miniature trees themselves, marching in a curved line between the trees like ducklings following their parents, enclosing the glade in a complete circle.

A very polite voice cleared across the open space, only a slight cough, but sounding for all the world like it was terribly apologetic for interrupting Thorin's reverie. Thorin's gaze cast over the shadowed trees and for the first time since he'd woken he was jarred enough to feel surprise sink through his calm.

There was a small, delicate… being standing across the clearing, curled around one of the trees as though sharing secrets with a close friend. Thorin was certain the man—for he was male, Thorin could distinguish that much—was _glowing_ , his skin pearlescent beneath the moon, and curly hair lit golden in a way that was entirely unnatural.

There were flowers twined through his hair, lit up in bright blues and purples and greens by the glow of his… of him.

His clothing was almost unnoticeable compared to the rest of him, but the fine chains of gold wrapped around his waist drew Thorin's notice, flashing with the occasional sparkle eerily reminiscent of the lights that had been haunting Thorin's cottage. The man was wearing a loose tunic that cinched tight under the belt of glittering chains, breeches so snug and dark beneath that it took Thorin a moment to distinguish them from the shadows surrounding him.

Vines twined around his legs, clinging close, a dark green relief against that strange illumination of his skin. The green tendrils braided themselves into a thick layer of curly golden hair along the top of his feet which climbed halfway up his shins before petering out. And Thorin would swear to the Valar that there were flowers blossoming among the vines.

Thorin found himself wondering what color his eyes were, if they were entirely inhuman as the rest of him.

"Good evening," the man said, as soon as he was certain he had Thorin's attention. A smile curled his mouth, friendly but with something wild simmering beneath it. It matched the strangeness of his clothing, but was entirely at odds with his overly polite tone.

There was something familiar in that smile.

Thorin felt too dazed to be upset, though a voice in the back of his mind whispered that he should be wary, and run.

When the being said nothing more, Thorin blinked slowly and tried to will his mind out of its sluggishness. "Good evening?" he said uncertainly.

A predatory smile lazily blossomed across the being's mouth. "Oh good, you're alright." At Thorin's blank silence he added with an air of concern, "Compulsions do occasionally go wrong. I quite prefer utilizing other paths, but sometimes needs must."

Thorin couldn't tell if the tone was genuine. He could barely wrap his mind around 'compulsion.' As ludicrous as the idea was—some… inhuman, _fairy tale_ being not only noticed Thorin but compelled him into the woods? It was absurd. It was _mad_.—Thorin found himself believing it. It was hard not to, when a creature who looked so utterly otherworldly was not ten paces away, watching Thorin with such intent on his face.

Thorin would probably wake up in the morning to find it was some foolish dream, spurred on by the locals' odd behavior and Bofur's Halloween jokes. Worse, he'd probably wake up to find it was a prank by some local he'd not met yet.

For all that, Thorin was sure if he could, he would be turning tail and running right now, pride be damned. As it was, he could barely think, let alone get his legs to obey basic commands. His brain felt disconnected from the rest of his body.

The man watched him a little longer before sighing. "It's uncomfortable, I know," he said, still sympathetic, and Thorin believed him less and less. "I do wish there'd been another way, but you've been terribly difficult, you know."

"Difficult?" he found his mouth repeating before his brain could offer any input.

The being gave Thorin an entirely exasperated, almost _fond_ smile. "Quite assuredly one of the most stubborn mortals I have ever come across, and that is no small few. Three months have I called to you, and still you resist."

Thorin thought over his list of options, painfully and slowly, which was a frustration he could hardly stand; Thorin was used to being able to think quickly on his feet. Eventually he gave up trying and instead said, carefully, "I don't understand."

The man looked surprised for a moment before shaking his head. "Well. No, I suppose you wouldn't. That will take time." He sighed again. "I do wish we had time. Bofur really should have minded his own business."

Thorin blinked at that, surprised the strange miner would have anything to do with anything, and when he looked again the man was gone.

Then there was a small, warm hand curling around his bicep. Before Thorin could turn he was sliding into darkness.

~*~

On waking all Thorin saw were leaves, vibrant and glossy.

At first he wondered why the hell there were leaves on his ceiling.

Then he recalled he'd been in a forest, so leaves made a little more sense.

And then an image of the being bloomed in his mind and everything came flooding back with it.

Waking in the middle of the night. Walking into the woods in nothing but his pajamas, careless of his bare feet. The glade. The glowing man. His predatory smile.

In those first few waking moments, Thorin had an epiphany. That smile had looked exactly like Bofur's, wild and full of a knowledge Thorin wasn't sure he wanted to understand.

A second epiphany followed closely on the heels of the first, which went something like, _The leaves are green_. And they were: green and healthy, so lustrous he could imagine they were wax.

It was October. The leaves should have been red, golden, brown. Dry, flecked with decay.

He sat up, relieved to know he could, that his body was listening to him once more, and then he stopped thinking entirely.

He was…

Thorin stared down—far, far down, what had to be a hundred foot drop—into a forest. An old, wild, overgrown forest, trunks so thick a dozen grown men couldn't reach around them and touch fingers, and so high that the leafy canopy vaulted up into oblivion and filtered the sunlight down into a thick green syrup.

And below it all, feet danced across a ground smothered in underbrush. Dozens, maybe a hundred people danced in a frenzy to music Thorin couldn't hear.

"It's my birthday party," a voice said from behind him.

Thorin jerked forward in surprise. The only thing that kept him from tumbling straight from the tree was a hand suddenly gripping his shoulder, pulling him back with surprising strength. Thorin found himself lying on his back in the bed—the _tree_ bed that had no right being nearly so comfortable as it was—and staring up into the strange being's face.

His eyes would charitably be called hazel, but Thorin couldn't fairly claim they were. They were green and brown and gold at once, the colors intermingled, swirling together, shifting back and forth in equal prominence.

Thorin had the fanciful thought that they were the colors of the forest. Rich, dark earth, wild green growing things, and the brilliant golden light of the sun.

Thorin blinked up at the sight. "When's your birthday?" It was the first thing that came into his head, and of course it was the first thing that fell out of his mouth. He grimaced.

The man smiled brightly down at him, still wild in a way Thorin couldn't quite define, but looking much more easy, more fitted to his surroundings, like he was exactly where he was meant to be. "The fall. September, you call it."

Thorin blinked, and made the conscious decision to ignore the 'you call it.' There was enough insanity surrounding him to be getting on with, and he didn't care to be derailed. "That's at least a _month_ ago," he said, and sat up slowly, as though any sudden movement might startle his companion.

The man's smile went a little more feral, and Thorin was strongly reminded that he was not human. There was no way in hell he could be human. As if in agreement, those eyes turned a little more golden.

"It is a long party," he said. "You're to join it, now that you're well," he added, his expression softening into thoughtfulness, looking over Thorin like he didn't quite know what to do with him, as if he'd never dealt with anything like him before. If Thorin had the presence of mind he would have felt flattered, a little.

"I don't dance," he blurted out, and didn't regret his utter lack of a filter in the least, even when surprise and something close to annoyance flickered over the man's features.

"You will," he said. "We have been waiting for you."

"No. I don't dance." Thorin frowned, wondering who the 'we' was, or if it was in some way a _royal_ we. The man certainly had the air for royalty.

The man frowned in return. "Never have I met such a stubborn mortal," he said, voice hard and annoyed, before cutting himself off. He stepped away from Thorin, hands twitching in short, sharp motions like he was trying to smother his irritation. It was only then Thorin noticed his fingers were elegantly long, with dark green nails Thorin knew on some instinctive level were completely natural.

"Who _are_ you?" Thorin demanded, recalling this man had called him stubborn before, in the glade. Was that only last night? How long had he been asleep?

The man twisted back around to face him, looking disbelieving and displeased all at once. "Pardon me?"

"Who are you?" Thorin repeated, feeling something tight along his spine unwind at putting this wild, inhuman creature on the wrong foot. At least it wasn't all one-sided now. Maybe Thorin could even get the upper hand.

The man's eyes darkened as he stalked forward across the large space sheltered in the tree's branches. Thorin didn't expect him to answer in the face of such anger, but he spoke, "I am of the untamed, of the wild wood, of the night and the shadows that make travelers' hearts beat faster in their chests. I am the lord of the Shire, of the Wood, of the Fair Folk." He grew taller and brighter as he spoke, shadows gathering close behind him, eyes glowing impossibly green. "Who are _you_?"

Thorin leaned back and tried to crush the urge to pull away until he either escaped the sudden force of this being or just fell out of the tree. A large part of his mind declared it wouldn't mind either option, so long as he _got away now_ , because this creature was not human, and he was a predator, and Thorin was suddenly certain he himself was the prey.

But there was nowhere to go, and even if there were he wasn't sure he'd get more than three feet before the man could stop him.

So Thorin dug his nails into his palms until they bit through flesh, and leaned back as best he could, and said in his 'Fili, let go of your brother's hair and put the scissors down this second' tone, "What's your _name_?"

"A question for a question," the man intoned, flat and level, glaring hard. But the shadows receded, and after a moment he stepped back and turned away. He didn't speak again.

Who are you, that had been the question. Thorin hesitated, but his mind was a great deal clearer than it had been in the glade last night, and he felt he had a fair chance of holding his own, at least for awhile.

Who was he? Thorin Durin, but he didn't want to give his name. What had the man called himself? Untamed. Wild. Lord of the Fair Folk.

Memories of childhood fairy tales swam in his head. The King of the Fairies, fairy rings and enchantments, mushrooms and hawthorn trees… it'd all been nonsense, once upon a time. They'd always been nothing more than children's stories, even when he was a child sitting on his mother's lap and listening intently. He couldn't remember how they went, never mind what the heroes did to outwit fairy mischief.

"I am…" Thorin started, voice hoarse, mind scrabbling. "An uncle," he blurted out, his nephews still clear in his mind. It became easier from there, easier to think, easier to breathe. "A brother, an editor, a mortal, and fed up. Now, it's my turn again, isn't that what you said? What's your name?"

When the being turned back, he once more looked like the man Thorin first saw in the clearing, glowing bright and wild, but softer in mien. He still looked entirely frustrated, and he watched Thorin for a long time in silence, utterly still, as though he'd turned to stone.

"You may call me Bilbo," he said grudgingly.

Thorin felt like he'd won something, like he'd reclaimed a piece of battleground.

"Who sent you?" Bilbo asked after another long silence, jolting Thorin from his sense of victory.

Thorin stared back at him, bewildered. "I don't understand."

"Who _sent you_ ," Bilbo repeated, as if that would make his meaning clearer. He stepped closer again, frown growing and fingers twitching in restlessness.

"I don't know what you mean," Thorin snapped. "You called me. A compulsion, you called it." There was something overwhelming about Bilbo's face—and why shouldn't there be, if he was what he claimed, king of the Fair Folk?—and he couldn't hold himself back from shifting away any longer. He slid back to the edge of the tree—the bower?—and watched the dancers below.

They were frenetic and none seemed to slow, though he couldn't see much from this great height. He felt more than saw Bilbo slide down to sit beside him.

"Don't they stop?" he asked. He looked up to see Bilbo's eyes, now dark brown and unreadable, watching him intently, but Bilbo didn't speak.

Bilbo's head tilted to the side as though trying to view Thorin through another angle. "How did you come to my house? The cottage on the hill."

Thorin blinked. "Is that what you—" he began before stopping himself just as quickly. He didn't want to accidentally ask a question, in case it counted. "I don't know. A friend recommended it to me."

"Who is this friend?"

"A question for a question," Thorin mimicked before he could think better of it.

Bilbo blinked, another look of surprise washing across his face, and his eyes turned a light brown flecked with green as Thorin watched. Bilbo's mouth curled in a half-smile, and Thorin would have thought him amused if it wasn't for the quirk of frustration still burrowing his brow.

"What would you ask then?" Bilbo asked impatiently.

"I'm thinking," he said, and wondered if he finally had the upper hand.

"You asked after the dancers," Bilbo prompted.

Thorin's fingers dug reflexively into the bark of tree and he said quickly, "That's not my question."

Old fairy tales were distantly collecting in the back of his mind. "They're human," Thorin blurted out after a moment, watching the dancers below, and sucked in a breath when he felt Bilbo go preternaturally still at his side. He turned his head just enough to catch sight of Bilbo, who was still watching him.

"Is that a question?" Bilbo inquired, that strangely polite tone from last night back in place, inflection flat and disinterested, but his eyes tracked Thorin's smallest movement with renewed intent. It took Thorin a minute to realize he was tracking Thorin's breathing.

"No," Thorin finally decided, trying to ignore Bilbo's attention, worrying when he was unable to. "It isn't." He was slowly remembering the tales, of the Shire Folk who abducted mortals for their parties, who drove them to dance with enchantments and illusions until they collapsed, dead.

Fear brought sickly cold crashing through him, though the air was just warm enough to be comfortable without becoming overwhelming. Nothing at all like the October night it was supposed to be. "Am I," he began before cutting himself off. That wasn't the question he wanted to ask, even if it was a concern. Was he enchanted, under Bilbo's spell? He didn't _feel_ enchanted, but how was he supposed to know?

"Tell me about Bofur," Thorin said abruptly, and watched as the brown washed out from Bilbo's eyes entirely as they became a vivid, glowing green.

"Is that a question?" Bilbo asked again.

Thorin hesitated before nodding. "Yes."

Bilbo's smile became full and mischievous, and Thorin had the sudden impression green eyes meant Bilbo was happy, even flirtatious.

"Bofur," Bilbo said, and his voice was thick with cheer, "was a fool."

Thorin blinked, stared. That wasn't what he'd been expecting. Bilbo caught the expression and gave Thorin an amused little smile. "He came to us quite by accident, stepped into our realm when he was walking home more than a little drunk off one of your mortal ales. He became turned around at the crossroads on the road toward Breetown."

"You know a lot of specifics," Thorin said, trying to choose his words carefully as he wondered if Bofur had been Bilbo's last victim. He suspected he failed spectacularly, if the increasingly amused look on Bilbo's face was anything to go by.

"Bofur is a talkative mortal," Bilbo agreed. "He bemoaned his foolishness many times while with us."

"Bofur _is_ mortal?" he asked.

Bilbo cast him another green-eyed smile. "He is."

"He looked a little," Thorin sought for the right words. "A little like you." It wasn't exactly what he'd meant, but it was the closest way he could describe the fierce, knowing gleam in Bofur's eyes.

"Hmm." Bilbo looked away from Thorin to watch the dancers below. "When I said Bofur is mortal, perhaps I should have said that he was. He still is, more or less." He looked back to Thorin. "But even those who find paths out of the Shire remain touched by it. He will always carry this place in his blood. As would you, should you leave, as you aim to do."

"What makes you think that is my goal?" he asked, more of an edge to his words than he meant to convey.

This time Bilbo laughed, bright and joyful, and warmth unfurled in Thorin's chest to hear it despite the tension running along every inch of his being. "It is as clear as the blue of your eyes," he said, a sly little smile coming to his mouth. He leaned in close, and Thorin held himself stiffly to avoid pulling away.

"I would like you to dance with me," he said soft and conspiratorial, so close that his lips ghosted over the corner of Thorin's mouth.

"I don't care to dance to death," Thorin said as levelly as he could given that his heart chose that moment to race in his chest. He wondered if the fairy king could hear it.

Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath. He pulled back, though only an inch or two. "Who is your friend?"

Thorin breathed out, and froze once more at the way Bilbo's gaze dropped to his mouth. His thoughts were scattered everywhere and he couldn't think much beyond a sudden terrible, burning curiosity to know what Bilbo's mouth tasted like, how soft his lips were, how hard his fingers could grip Thorin's neck or twine into his hair.

Bilbo looked satisfied and frustrated at once.

"You've enchanted me," Thorin accused.

Bilbo sighed and leaned back a little more. Thorin was certain there was disappointment in his voice. "I've tried. You're terribly stubborn."

"What do you mean you've _tried_?"

Bilbo's glance was sour. "You want to join me. I know it, I can _feel_ it." He tapped his chest, where his heart would beat beneath layers of skin and bone. "You want me. Why resist?"

Thorin's eyebrows arched impossibly high. "You want me to throw away my life to y—wait. Aren't you supposed to answer my question? Isn't that the game we've been playing?"

"When you answer mine." Bilbo stood with fluid grace, stepping away across the wide bower. "You're very tiresome," he said, and Thorin heard such a whine of complaint in his tone it reminded him of his nephews. It was that moment he the old descriptions of the fairy king drifted through his mind: powerful, mischievous, mercurial.

"What was your question?" Thorin asked, and if his voice was a little hoarse, he couldn't say if it was because of fear for his life or desire for Bilbo's.

Bilbo glared, annoyed. "Your _friend_. Who gave you the house. _My_ house."

It took long minutes for Thorin to parse through Bilbo's meaning. Bilbo's house? Thorin's friend? 

Their earlier conversation slowly filtered back into Thorin's mind, about his cottage in Tyrn Gorthad. "Grey," Thorin said eventually, wondering how much this place was affecting him after all, how much Bilbo was affecting him, that a conversation held not ten minutes ago could be so dim in his memory, like they'd spoken years ago.

"Grey," Bilbo's voice was flat and far away, and Thorin turned to find him on the opposite side of the bower, sitting on a thick branch a man's height above the floor, frowning thoughtfully. Before Thorin's eyes a row of small flowers bloomed along the vines twining Bilbo's legs. They were bright red and pointed.

"Olórin?" Bilbo asked, glancing over Thorin. "Gandalf the Grey?"

"His first name is Gandalf," Thorin said before he thought better of it.

Bilbo's frown grew, the red flowers wilting and falling away in an instant. Thorin was sure if he was closer, Bilbo's eyes would be dark, though he didn't know how he knew it. As it was, he was glad not to be sitting beside an infuriated fairy king.

"That explains much," Bilbo said, voice low, gaze distant. "Meddling old wizard."

"Wizard," Thorin said, drawing Bilbo's attention back to him. In an instant Bilbo was off the branch and at Thorin's side. He caught Thorin's wrist and tugged him to his feet with surprising strength.

"Enough of these games," Bilbo said fiercely. "You are here to dance for me. So you will."

~*~

Thorin danced.

Minutes or months, he didn't know. The world blurred together in endless, frantic movement, surrounded by mortals and fairies alike, every one of them joining him in dance after euphoric dance.

He couldn't have stopped had he wanted to, but he didn't. The rhythm was his world, the music a clear, beautiful call ringing out across the forest floor, impossible to ignore, to deny. Inhuman instruments and voices arced up, entrancing all who listened.

And everything hurt.

Sometimes Bilbo was there.

Sometimes he was not.

Thorin had lost sense of time so completely he didn't know when or how long Bilbo stayed, only that his body would press into Thorin's, his words would hum and talk and laugh, his eyes would glow gold and green and brown at once, mouth curved into a pleased smile Thorin would do anything to keep.

They moved together as stars twirled above them, all of eternity passing them by. Bilbo's weight would push against him, or he would grab Thorin's hand and guide him as the dance changed around them.

Bilbo would curl around Thorin like a cat, and Thorin would lean down to swallow his mouth, to trace his hands along every line of Bilbo's body.

Always Bilbo whispered promises that Thorin never quite remembered.

All that Thorin knew was the euphoria and the pain, Bilbo and the dance, and the certainty that he did not want to leave Bilbo's side and that he never would, because he would die here, dancing to the fairy king's whim.

~*~

Thorin _ached_ beyond belief. He felt burned away to his very core, as though his feet were ash already blown into nothing by the wind, like his legs were quickly joining them.

But for the first time pain was all he felt; the ecstasy, the passion, the desire, all of it was gone, like someone had flicked off the switch to a blaring radio.

And for the first time in longer than he could imagine, Thorin wasn't moving. He was lying on the ground, staring into nothing, seeing nothing even as a great shadow fell over him.

He thought it must be Bilbo, though surely Bilbo would touch him if it were. He wished he would.

But the shadow slowly developed features, the hills and plains of nose and cheeks, eyes and broad forehead. It wasn't Bilbo.

"Bilbo's cottage," was the first thing Thorin said when he recognized Gandalf leaning down over him. He meant for it to be, _You had me buy Bilbo's cottage, you fucking bastard. A little warning would have been nice._

Gandalf didn't speak, or if he did Thorin didn't hear him, and time passed around them. He didn't know how long. Seconds. Days. Years. They all blended together now.

After awhile he noticed blue sky bleeding through the leaves above him, instead of the thick green light of Bilbo's forest realm, and he distantly realized he was back in the mortal world, in the little glade he'd once walked to in the middle of the night, compelled by the fairy king.

The second thing he said, an indeterminate amount of time later, was, "Wizard."

Gandalf's shadowy face broke into a smile at that. "I see Bilbo's been complaining."

Thorin frowned, and otherwise did not move. He realized with a great deal of confusion he could recall talking to Bilbo clearly, as if those memories were locked in a crystal case. He'd never been able to remember them before, not a single conversation. Before all his mind could hold was the sound of the music, his blood singing for the dance.

But that wasn't right either. They hadn't always danced. They had spent eons talking, walking game trails winding under the trees, lying beneath the stars, sharing food and touch. He felt heat flush his cheeks, pleasure and displeasure all at once.

It was one of the damnable quirks of the fairy realm, no doubt. Bilbo always said there were many, he could recall now. _Mortals are not made for this place. It twists the mind away, bends it into something else,_ he'd said.

_Then why do you kidnap them?_ Thorin had asked, not even realizing he'd stopped counting himself as _one of them_ at some point. He never planned to leave Bilbo's side, not any longer.

_Because we hunger for their life,_ Bilbo had said, something sharp and painful in his voice, and Thorin had not seen him for awhile after that. He thought, at any rate.

Gandalf was sitting at Thorin's side, he realized as his thoughts spiraled back to the present, cross-legged on the leaf-ridden ground. It was bloody cold out, and the leaves were brown and red.

"Has no time passed?" Thorin asked, voice hoarse.

Gandalf smiled and squeezed Thorin's shoulder. "Quite the opposite, dear Thorin. One year and one day, to the very second I daresay. Let's see if you're ready to stand, and we'll get you home."

_No mortal who enters our lands may leave,_ Bilbo had often said. _Not easily. Not without a price._

"Bilbo's home," Thorin said, and when Gandalf levered him up he grunted, "my feet—"

"Are whole and well, for all that your mind plays tricks on you," Gandalf assured him, and it was true. As soon as Thorin was on his feet, he realized he could walk perfectly fine, though they ached like he'd walk across the breadth of Arda and back again.

It would take him time for him to realize he had not been trapped in an endless dance after all. His mind told him he had been, and hadn't, all in the same thought.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, and trailed off. He wasn't sure what there was to say. He wasn't sure what he wanted Gandalf to know. Thorin didn't know what price others had paid to leave the fairy realm, but he was quickly recalling what his had been. He hadn't wanted to leave at all.

Gandalf glanced at him curiously, but otherwise occupied himself with navigating Thorin's disoriented sense of self past the trees and brush without injury.

Once they left the woods, stepping out into the backyard of Thorin's cottage, he said again, "This is Bilbo's home."

Gandalf studied Thorin's face, curious and knowing at once. "Indeed. He lived here once, long ago, before the memory of history began."

Thorin blinked, looked over his very modern little cottage, and felt a smile tug at his mouth, however exhausted it no doubt looked. "It's lasted well in the Ages then."

Gandalf chuckled. "Ah yes. It doesn't look ages old, does it? That's a little trick of magic most would never guess at." He helped Thorin maneuver over to the steps outside the back door. "Now where do you keep your spare key?"

"I only rented. If I've really been gone a year," only a year, Thorin thought with some disbelief, "it's surely rented out to someone new. What about this 'little trick of magic' then?"

"So one would expect, but no, it's been kept in your name. Quite mysterious."

"Gandalf," Thorin growled. "I am too tired for your shit."

The look Gandalf leveled him was fully unimpressed. "We all have our secrets," he said, staring at Thorin pointedly. After a moment he went on, "As this secret is not mine, I shall elaborate, this time. This cottage lies in one of the few places in the world that borders fay and mortal realms. Long ago, so long it lies beyond the memory of Man, there was a race of beings protected by a primordial force."

"Not the Valar?" Thorin asked.

Gandalf slanted him an amused, tried look. "Not the Valar. Something as old as they."

Thorin digested that for awhile. "And?"

"And confusticate Men who interrupt stories for their own curiosity! Ah, there we are!" Gandalf swept down suddenly and when he straightened there was a stone in his hand: Thorin's hide-a-key. Thorin grunted and ignored Gandalf's triumphant chuckle.

"And what happened?" he asked again. "With this primordial force?"

Gandalf unlocked the door. "Why, I know no certainties. The best of stories have no certain end, and this has always been the most remarkable of mysteries, for those of us who remember to marvel over it. There was a race of kind and gentle beings, interested in nothing more than good earth, good food, and good company, until an evil swept their land and all fell into darkness. When aid came, their lands were burned, their towns empty."

"They died," Thorin said flatly, wondering what this had to do with fairies or Bilbo even as he allowed Gandalf to help him to his feet. The old man had no right to be as strong as he was. "That sounds like no mystery at all."

Gandalf's huff was exasperated above all else. "Have you ears, Thorin Durin?"

Thorin frowned. "You _said_ they died—"

"I said, their towns were empty!"

It took far too long for Thorin to grasp his meaning. "…there were no bodies?"

There was finally an approving hum. "Not one."

Thorin stared at Gandalf until Gandalf nudged him forward and he ran into his own doorjamb. He grunted in pain. "You're having me on. That's nothing but a load of nonsense. Fairy tales." Gandalf's eyebrow arched. Thorin realized what he'd said, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over him. "Worse than fairy tales," he amended with a glare.

Gandalf shook his head. "Your stubbornness is certainly a trial." His eyebrow arched when Thorin twitched. "No doubt another has also had reason to rue your stubborn streak as well," he added with, and Thorin would have sworn his eyes were twinkling, but he sobered a second later. "However, I owe you great recompense, Thorin, and my apologies. I … had not expected events to turn in such a way."

"So you _did_ plan for me to be abducted," Thorin said, not as sharply as he wanted to; Thorin had already known.

_If Gandalf has anything to do with your moving to my cottage, then he sacrificed you to me quite purposefully,_ Bilbo told him once, his arms sliding around Thorin's waist as they left the confines of the old wood and stepped out into a vast vale peppered with gently sloping hills. It was one of the rare times sadness glimmered in his eyes, turning them nearly black. _It is only now that I guess why._

Now Gandalf's face melted into such sorrow Thorin felt the urge to apologize. He bit his tongue until the desire faded.

He wasn't going to put up with Gandalf's meddling, even if there was an ache in his chest that told him to run back to the glade as fast as possible and return to the other side.

He wouldn't be able to. The doors between worlds only opened during certain times of the year. Samhain. Beltane. A handful of others. It would be months before Thorin could try, months to contemplate, to question and doubt. Months to live in the mortal realm, without the exulting rush of fairy music, the flavor of fairy food, the intoxication of Bilbo's touch.

The mortal world paled in comparison. The colors already looked dim and washed out to Thorin's sight, and Tyrn Gorthad was still touched by the fairy realm. He dared not contemplate how unpleasant food would be on his tongue, how lifeless. How his family might look to him, without the vitality of magic coursing through their veins.

"I admit I expected a greatly different turn of events," Gandalf acknowledged, but he did not elaborate.

_Long has Gandalf tried to impose his will where it cannot go. Long has he asked of us things we cannot give. Our home is here, but Olórin refuses to understand,_ Bilbo had said, and said no more. Thorin was getting damned tired of elusive eccentrics.

"Olórin?" he said out loud, testing the name on his tongue, shaking himself from memories that felt brighter than the world around him.

Gandalf inhaled sharply, giving Thorin a critical look. "Where did you learn such a word?"

"Isn't it your name?" Thorin leveled as steady a stare as he could manage, which as it turned out wasn't very. Fairy kings he could handle, but suspect wizards were apparently another matter entirely. Gandalf's eyes were too sharp and too kind.

Gandalf studied Thorin until Thorin looked away. "So I am remembered," he said softly, more to himself than to Thorin. "At least there is that."

They didn't speak much after that. Gandalf helped Thorin settle in and said he would arrange to have the local grocer deliver necessities, given Thorin's pantry was bare. Then he patted Thorin's knee. "I have affairs to attend to, my friend, as you do I'm sure."

"Running away so quickly?" Thorin snapped, unsettled with everything that had happened in the last few hours—hours? Was it only hours? It felt like an eternity already, time grinding down into a standstill from sheer dullness.

Gandalf smiled kindly. "There are some answers you seek that I can't give you, Thorin. I fear it may be best to move on with your life as quickly as you may—"

"I'm _touched_ by the Fair Folk because of you," Thorin said pointedly. "As I understand it, there will never be 'moving on' with things. I will always be… different."

Gandalf looked over him curiously. "Less different than you might think. Now that you mention it, less different indeed. I don't believe I have ever seen another mortal so unmarked by their time way."

"You needn't sound so disappointed."

"On the contrary!" Gandalf smiled broadly. "Perhaps things have not gone as badly wrong as I'd feared." He gripped Thorin's shoulder. "I should like to visit again, if you would have me."

Thorin contemplated whether he should tell Gandalf more, that he remembered more—he remembered _everything_ , including how little Gandalf had to do with Thorin's escape from Bilbo's realm. Instead, he simply said, "I expect you to. Remember to bring better answers next time, _wizard_."

Gandalf chuckled, and left without farewells.

Maybe Thorin could tell him when he visited next. Maybe Thorin would have a clearer idea what he would even say. _I hate to shatter your illusions, but you don't hold as much power over the fairy realm as you think, least of all over Bilbo. Or me._

_Your meddling is obnoxious, so knock it the fuck off._

_Thank you handing me over to Bilbo like a bloody birthday gift, but keep your nose out of it from now on._

Thorin climbed the stairs up to his bedroom and collapsed into a bed that looked exactly as he'd left it—the blankets were musty, but it wasn't anything he couldn't live with—and fell into a deep sleep.

His dreams were filled with green leaves, music that vibrated in his bones, and laughter that matched golden eyes.

~*~

Thorin didn't know how long he slept, but he suspected it was days. He woke up starving and with the painful urge to piss.

He had no power, so his clocks were all out, his phone and computer long dead. Gandalf had said a year, hadn't he? Thorin had been gone a _year_ , and he still couldn't decide whether that was too long or too short. His sense of time was still screwed beyond repair, and he had nothing to tell the time with, let alone the day.

He'd have to go into town to call the power company.

He would have to, as Gandalf suggested, move on with his life, and he didn't want to.

That was the moment he realized his sister and nephews no doubt thought him dead, and he winced.

Valar, he had to call them and let them know. What exactly, he wasn't sure, but certainly 'I'm not dead' was high on the list. Beyond that… Explaining much of anything felt like an impossible task to overcome. People in the mountains just didn't _believe_ fairy tales, and there was no way in hell Dís would think Thorin anything but mad if he told her he'd been kidnapped by the fairy king. He actually snorted a laugh just thinking about it.

He hadn't expected to laugh so quickly after leaving the fairy ring. He never thought he would yesterday. Today he felt hope stir in his chest at the thought of seeing his family, hearing their voices.

_You have things to do,_ Bilbo had said.

_None of it matters,_ Thorin had replied. _I won't leave you._

Bilbo had smiled, mischievous and amused, sad and pleased all at once, and leaned up to kiss his jaw. _You will die here._

It took time, but Thorin showered and dressed and left to follow the road to town, more a winding dirt track than anything. On his front door he found two wooden crates full of food, just as Gandalf had promised. He wondered how long they'd sat out on his door, miraculously untouched by woodland creatures, and made a note to stop in at the shop to pay his tab. Then he recalled he would need money, and turned back into the house.

It took him half an hour of rifling through his belongings but he eventually found his wallet. 

The walk down to the village was confusing, to say the least. Beyond feeling pale to the point of dreary, the normal world didn't seem that different from the fairy realm until he tried to navigate it. It'd been a year, and it was only as he tried to remember his way around that he finally realized it _felt_ like a year, and longer still.

It took him over an hour to make his way to the village when it should have been a brisk twenty minute walk. He kept veering into the woods as if compelled to return to them. Except now the compulsion was all his own doing.

A startled cry dragged Thorin from his thoughts as he walked down Main Street toward the grocery. He looked up to catch sight of Bifur gaping at him from the door of the bar.

Bofur and Bombur suddenly appeared behind him, and a slew of other pub patrons behind them, like ghostly spectators hovering over a sport. Thorin turned toward them—the pub would at least have a phone and he could call Dís—and watched in surprise as every single one of them skittered back like he was a specter of death.

He kept walking, and they all continued scattering back until he could only see Bofur in the doorway.

The only explanation Thorin could fathom was they knew where he'd been. They'd known he'd been taken to the fairy realm, and they'd not expected his return.

Remembering the locals' reactions toward Bofur, Thorin was suddenly sure that's exactly what had happened. They'd known of the Fair Folk. Of course they'd known. How couldn't they when no one managed to occupy Bilbo's cottage more than a year? Every new tenant was always abducted away. The very earth was soaked in fairy enchantment.

_It's my house,_ Bilbo had said. _Everyone who lives there will come to me sooner or later. They can't help it._ The entire village was touched by the Shire Folk, and Bilbo's cottage more so than the rest. The fairy realm existed so close to Tyrn Gorthad that it bled into the land.

Thorin stepped into the bar, sliding past Bofur in the doorway. Bofur looked him over with a keen gaze, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance Thorin realized the green in Bofur's eyes was fairy-green.

_But even those who find paths out of the Shire remain touched by it. He will always carry this place in his blood,_ Bilbo had said of Bofur, of all who had ever stepped into fairy lands.

The patrons kept away from him, as though Thorin had a shield around him holding them at bay.

Bifur spoke to Bofur, anxious and wary, and for the first time Thorin understood perfectly what he was saying. He was speaking the fairy language, a soft, rolling tongue. He had to have been in the fairy realm at some point. There was no other way he would know the language.

"How did you escape?" Bofur asked, ignoring Bifur's admonishment to move away from Thorin. That same wild gleam still glimmered in his eyes, subtler than the inhuman green but just as telling.

"How did you?" Thorin asked.

Bofur grinned, tilting his head in invitation to the bar. "Buy you a round and tell you all about it."

" _We pulled the fool out,_ " Bifur said, the rolling syllables thick on his tongue, still watching Thorin warily. Bofur grunted in agreement.

Thorin looked between them, surprised.

"Once you understand the language, it sticks with you," Bofur explained, a touch more serious. "Bifur… Well. You remember Bombur explaining the mining accident?" He searched Thorin's face for acknowledgement, and Thorin realized with a start that Bofur would understand better than anyone how far and distant one's old life seemed after everything. He nodded, silently prompting Bofur to continue.

"A mining pick," Bofur said, voice dropping to speak in confidence. "Nearly died. Would have, but for the Fair Folk. Bombur and me, we remembered the rings. Bombur even knew where one was, and it was close enough to Lughnasadh that the paths were open to travelers. They took him, saved his life. Don't know what they did, but while he was gone he forgot all his Westron, never managed to learn it back. It seemed a fair price to pay for his life."

"Ah." Thorin recalled the strange way the lands burrowed into his head and took away his senses, to the point Thorin could barely recall up from down. It was no wonder someone so badly injured would have it worse. It was a miracle Bifur lived at all, if living in the mortal world after the fairy realm could be called living. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Bofur and Bifur shared knowing looks and both reached out to slap his back. It felt like something very close to camaraderie. Thorin looked around their silent audience. "Everyone knew."

"'course," Bombur muttered, cheeks going ruddy.

"No one could have warned me?"

"Would you have believed us?"

"No, probably not," he admitted. Not even with the lights flickering at the corners of his eyes. Everyone was still looking at him like they expected him to begin break out into tongues and ensnare them with enchantments at any second. "I need to use a phone."

It seemed to break the spell. Many in their audience jolted, and exchanged awkward, embarrassed looks with each other. A mischief-making sprite was hardly likely to ask for a phone, after all, now was he?

Bofur immediately produced his cellular and smiled sympathetically. "You look a bit odd, is all. Even to me you stand out."

Thorin blinked, accepting the phone without really noticing it. "Gandalf said I didn't look different."

Bifur grunted something that sounded suspiciously like 'meddling wizards' but before he could ask Bofur was laughing and slapping his back again.

"Had someone to pull you from the ring, eh?" he said. "I did wonder how you found your way free."

Free wasn't how Thorin would describe it. He hummed noncommittally. Bofur breezed past his silence.

"This Gandalf was lying to you. Your eyes are bluer, and if I'm not mistaken, you've taken on a bit of a glow." He shrugged at Thorin's sharp, startled stare. "It'll likely fade as not. My hair was damn near red as a russet rose when I came out, but it's been fading out to its usual over the months."

"What price did you pay?" Thorin blurted out.

Bofur fell silent and stared back at him. He wiggled his fingers between them after a second. "The loss of skill," he said after a minute, and smiled ruefully. "It was a hard struck bargain too. Not a day goes by that I don't miss whittling a piece of wood into something new."

"No one leaves without a price," Thorin muttered.

"What'd you pay?" Bofur's eyes were bright and curious.

Thorin hesitated, twisting the phone in his hands. "I lost my heart," he said, and stepped away to call his sister.

Dís shouted Thorin's ear off for nearly three hours, intermingled with crying and the slowly expanding shouts of others as more family arrived and pried the phone from Dís' fingers: Víli, trying to sound calm while he snapped about Thorin's utter idiocy; Fíli and Kíli, shouting in excitement, _you've been gone ages, and the police said you weren't dead but you were_ gone, _Uncle_ ; Balin, trying to be the voice of reason even as his tone overflowed with worry; Dwalin, cursing Thorin out with explicit and improbable threats of impending death.

The entire time Bofur, Bifur and Bombur talked quietly at a table, shooting Thorin occasional curious looks, and greatly entertained grins when his family grew particularly loud.

At some point it was decided Thorin would move back home to the Blue Mountains. He didn't know how to tell them he couldn't stay, that every fiber of his being yearned to return to another world entirely, so he agreed.

~*~

Three weeks later, he was stepping off his train to be engulfed by a sea of family.

He loved his family more than anything on the face of Arda, and his mind had quieted enough to revel in the joy of seeing them, all of them whole and hale and happy.

The only problem was, Bilbo wasn't in the strictest sense on Arda, was he?

~*~

Thorin's return to Tyrn Gorthad over fourteen months later wasn't entirely what he'd expected.

The locals stared at him, whether in disbelief or horror, he didn't really know.

He barely noticed any of them, even when Bofur came up to his cottage with a housewarming crate of beers and a curiously muttered inquiry of, "No one's gone missing, you know. Well over a full year now, Imbolc's nearly on us. That's not happened before as far as any of us can recollect." The words were followed quickly by a piercing look.

Thorin thanked him for the beer and closed the door on his face.

_Fairies are not meant to love mortals this way._ Bilbo had said one night. They'd been dancing around the edge of ring, and Bilbo had pulled him up against a tree, into the shadows, stilling their movement. _We hunger for you, for a life long lost to us. Not this._

Thorin hadn't wanted to stop, wanted nothing more than to pull Bilbo back into the ring of dancers, but Bilbo held him still, arms twining around his back and holding on. His eyes were golden, and full of something Thorin distantly recognized as grief. But Bilbo had no reason to grieve. The dance continued, the woods flourished, everything was exactly how it was meant to be.

Thorin thought it would be the closest thing to an admission of love Bilbo would ever offer.

He'd been wrong.

Thorin stepped out his back door, heading toward the woods and a distant twinkle of lights just out of clear vision.

_Gandalf is a meddlesome old wizard,_ Bilbo had said countless times. One of those times he had continued, as they lay on the very tops of the trees, watching the stars. _But he is not a fool. He is coming for you, Thorin. He would not leave you here to die._

The trees were dark and overgrown, more than he remembered. Thorin's sleeves caught in branches, his feet caught in roots. Underbrush crackled and snapped beneath his boots.

_Everyone who leaves this place must pay a price. I could keep you here. I never have to let you go._ Bilbo had whispered into his hair that night, turning away from the night sky to press his face into Thorin's neck.

_Then don't,_ Thorin had said. _I would not leave you._

But Bilbo let him go. Gandalf's magic parted the veil between the worlds, his hand grabbed Thorin's, and he'd pulled. Bilbo had let him.

_Mortals are not made for this place. You will die if you stay here,_ Bilbo had said.

_I have to pay a price to leave,_ Thorin had reminded him uselessly.

Bilbo's smile had been wan, all his mischief and joy drained away. _You already have. You will have to return for it._

Thorin cleared a tree and saw the glade up ahead. It glowed beneath the sliver of moon in the sky.

There was a man standing in the very center of it.

"My heart," Thorin said, humming in pleasure.

Bilbo looked up and gave a slow, wild smile, as if he didn't quite believe his eyes. "I've been waiting."

"You damn well better have," Thorin said, ignoring the amused grin that bloomed across Bilbo's mouth.

Mortals weren't made for the fairy realm, but so long as Thorin did not stay, he could visit as he pleased. There was nothing in the world that would keep him away. He stepped into the fairy ring.

**Author's Note:**

> Samhain, Lughnasadh, Imbolc, and Beltane are all Gaelic festivals related to the seasons, and are sometimes connected to Sidhe mythology. 
> 
> Tyrn Gorthad is the Barrow-Downs.


End file.
